I’m leaving a marriage– stifling, emotionally abusive, controlling, needy. ..and it began when we were so young. ..we didn’t know how to avoid leaning on each other when we needed to fly and be ourselves first.

It’s a hard time.

I cry often.

It is a grieving.

Loads of counselors.

The couch is not as comfortable as it may seem.

The Year of 44 gives way to authenticity.

I’m leaving it and trying to be with my kids

and be myself.

It’s actually so worth it. I am worth it.

But I am causing him so much pain. ..he doesn’t want to let me go . Wants to hold on in unhealthy ways.

Like this:

Her experiments, passions, plans, all go hard-on for about 24 months and then she steps back, takes stock and begins again.

She moves to a new town and sets up her shop. It’s a small place, low overhead, big ROI.

Lately, she notices more grey hair each time she settles in for the haul. She sweeps it up under her fedora and tucks it behind her ears. When she puts on that fresh line of burgundy, and sets her jaw and turns to the side, she’s still a girl and her heart and stubborn chin jut forth to prove her worth.

She admits she has always held attraction to men of age. The walk. The life. The share of living, the stories that feed her mind.

Yes, sometimes she’s deliberately blind and hides behind the ask: Other lovers? Mouths to feed? Games to play? He’ll just tell her another lie and she’ll be left wondering more than his age.

It’s a beautiful thing how she transforms each time, a metamorphosis in all its awe and grandeur. She’s grown taller in her ability to stare straight down the barrel, her legs longer than at 17, her shoulders diminutive at first glance, but strong when he enters through the back door.

She’s got a way about her. Don’t know what it is. But it’s sultry and beautiful and free. And that’s all she needs to feel. She’s lived years, locked away behind his pain and his needs and his worries. Duties fulfilled, yes, she left.

Yes.

She’s been slow on the uptake but is gentle with herself. They were both so.so.young.

Yes, she’d like the happily ever after.

She just needs a little bit of silence, a little bit of alone, a little bit of the after, before she can see the happy.

She spreads her arms wide, palms to the sun, her shoulder blades press to the center of her lithe and pale back. She rises on her toes, calves taut and hip to the side. The back of her hand, wrist bent, skims her own cheek, brings back the one, honest touch she lived and loved.

If she cannot feel a presence, she will create it.

And if elusive satisfaction is not present at all…because she has walked-again…then she is alone and free and has a store of touch and pride to pull from.

She reaches inside herself and pulls forth a new day. It is beautiful. And it is good.

And she is so alone. So stark-raving alone. She remains, claws at truth and remains in complete control.